


Season of Giving

by bluminic



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Period-Typical Antisemitism, Pre-Slash, Silly subplots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluminic/pseuds/bluminic
Summary: When Carter complains that Stalag 13 isn't feeling very festive, Newkirk crafts a simple solution to the problem. But how will they have time for Christmas when the Germans disrupt their plans for a special explosive delivery? Will Hogan be able to protect Klink from an insidious Gestapo plan that could destroy their whole operation? How will the men, pining for home, make it through the holiday? In particular, how will Newkirk deal with his newly discovered feelings for Hogan?And, where on Earth will LeBeau find a goose? Stay tuned for classic Hogan's Hero-style interweaving subplots, silliness, a little darkness, and ultimately, a happy ending.





	1. The Merriest Loss

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this story plotted out for several weeks and finally--almost too late, just like the Heroes in the story--am finding time for cultivating some Christmas spirit. This is the first story in a long time that I have had time to write.
> 
> So! While I do not think it will all be up by Christmas Day, I hope to release at least one chapter per day and finish it within the next week in time for the extended Christmas season. I hope that the small but faithful HH fan community enjoys the story; it is certainly a gift to me to have time to write it. 
> 
> Tags updated with the story. (Don't want to give too much away!) Comments are love.

“Oh boy, it sure doesn’t feel like Christmas this year,” Carter grumbled into his cards. “December 21st —no tree, no decorations, no presents, nothing.”

  
LeBeau rolled his eyes at the earnest blond American. “You’ve said that three times already today,” the Frenchman complained, rearranging his hand. “Our barracks,” he said, gesturing to the sparse, worn furnishings of the prison camp room, “Are clean, at least. When have we had time for decorating?”

  
Carter shrugged. The POWs of Stalag 13 had been exceptionally busy the last few weeks. So many Nazi enterprises to sabotage, so little time.

  
“And at least you know your hometown isn’t filled with dirty bouche,” LeBeau added.

  
Newkirk grimaced into his own hand, partly in agreement, partly to hide his own luck: a high straight, without even pulling in the extra king that was hiding up his sleeve. “Well, if you don’t like it, Carter, let’s do something about it. I mean, we steal tanks and build bombs; who’s to say we can’t rustle up a little Christmas cheer, eh? I raise,” he concluded, tossing in two more homemade poker chips.

  
“I fold,” said Carter with a sigh. “What do you mean, Christmas cheer? Like singing Christmas songs?”

  
“We could drown out Klink’s violin for once,” Kinch laughed.

  
“Call or fold?” Newkirk asked.

  
The dark-skinned sergeant looked the Englishman in the eye. “Whenever you raise, my chance of winning seems to go down. I fold.”

  
“Well, I call,” LeBeau said. “And I don’t feel like singing carols!”

  
“It’s not like most of us are ruddy canaries, are we?” Newkirk agreed. “Well, LeBeau, maybe we could find you a nice goose to roast.”

  
“Where are you going to find a goose?” LeBeau sneered. “And why do you think I’d cook for you? Three of a kind,” he declared proudly, sitting the cards face up on the table.

  
“Because, Louie,” Newkirk added with a smile, “I win, and that’s what I want from you. Straight.” He placed the cards down beside the Frenchman’s.

  
Kinch shook his head. “You fooled me!” he said, flipping over his cards.

  
“Nice flush, mate,” Newkirk grinned, pulling in all the chips on the table. “That would have been good one. You know you shouldn’t trust me.”

  
“Englishmen,” LeBeau huffed and then smiled. He was used to losing to Newkirk by now.

  
“And, what do you want from us?” Carter asked. With both chips and the capital they signified limited, the men had long ago agreed to trade favors rather than keep a tally of winnings. By tradition, those who had folded had to make a smaller concession than those who remained in the game.

  
Newkirk cocked his head to look at Carter. In Newkirk’s opinion, Andrew Carter was by far the most irritating of his fellow prisoners. The boy—because that’s what he was still, nearly a boy—was terribly naïve. He used words like “gosh” instead of proper profanity. He was careless with explosives—a habit that had nearly cost Newkirk his life more than once.

  
But, the American sergeant had also had perfected the most pathetic sad puppy eyes Newkirk had ever seen. The British corporal sighed and then spoke. “Carter, you’re breaking m’ heart with that face. Look, how about you organize a Christmas gift exchange. We can all draw names.”

  
Carter’s face lit up. “Really? This is way better than the time that you made me…”

  
“Carter, they don’t want to know about that!” Newkirk interjected. He was still ashamed of some of the most hated camp chores that he’d had Carter “volunteer” for after a particularly devastating loss at cards.

  
“And me?” Kinch asked.

  
“Can he help me with getting presents and decorate? Be my elf?” Carter asked.

  
The Brit laughed aloud at the thought of thin, young, earnest Carter in a Father Christmas suit being followed around by tall, gangly Kinchloe dressed as an elf. “Sure. Kinch can help. We’re going to have to move fast if we want ‘em by Christmas.”

  
At that point, one of the lower bunk beds suddenly rose by several feet and a dark-haired, middle-aged man in a bomber jacket emerged from the concealed tunnel. Giving the bedframe two sharp raps to conceal the tunnel once more, he strode to the middle of the room. All eyes shifted to him. Even without the insignia of a colonel on his jacket, Newkirk reflected, it would be hard to confuse Hogan for anything but a leader.

  
“Who’s Kinch been helping besides me for the past hour?” Hogan asked. Kinch looked to LeBeau and Newkirk in surprise. No one had noticed how long their leader had been down in the tunnel; he being gone for that long usually meant bad news.

  
Carter, as usual, did not pick up on the shift in mood. “Me, Colonel!” he declared, happily. “Newkirk beat us at cards, so we’re going to make it feel like Christmas. Kinch and I are going to decorate and organize a gift exchange. LeBeau is going to cook a goose!”

  
Hogan shook his head slightly. “If we don’t solve these other problems, our goose is going to be cooked!” Newkirk blinked at his commanding officer. The guv’nor must be really worried. The colonel was the only man in camp with a poker face better than his. If it was slipping, that meant double bad news.

  
“Project Rumpelstiltskin is in trouble,” Hogan explained. “Remember all of those miniature bomb parts we made?”

  
“’Ow could we forget,” Newkirk grumbled, “Those tiny timers nearly killed me hands.”

  
“Well,” Hogan continued, “Our contact was picked up last night. He exposed a whole string of contacts, and our codes for all we know. It’s going to take weeks for the Underground to sort it out.”

  
“But the Resistance is running low on supplies!” LeBeau protested. “They won’t be able to organize another raid until next year.”

  
“Exactly,” Hogan interrupted. “We do have another contact who can meet us in Dusseldorf by Christmas Eve, but she can only meet during the day. We need a cover.”

  
Over the next half hour, the men cycled through ideas, each one wilder than the last. It was about the time that Carter suggested hiding everything in a giant snowman that the exercise period was announced. “We’ll think of something,” Hogan concluded. “We always do.”

  
“What about the gift exchange?” Carter asked.

  
The colonel cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing in thought. “That might be just what we need—at least as a distraction. And I’ll go ask Klink. The man’s full of ideas, whether he realizes it or not."

  
“Oh boy!” Carter shouted. “Christmas is coming this year after all!”

Newkirk smiled. He’d never seen the man be so excited about anything other than shiny new explosives. Maybe he should be generous in his winning more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to have them do a "Secret Santa" exchange, but evidently the term post-dates the war by a few decades. Who knew!


	2. A Surprise Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogan pitches his plan to Klink. But it looks like things are about to get a lot more complicated.

The exercise period was in full swing when Hogan entered the Kommandantur. It was a brisk, cloudy day. Nothing could be better than spending at least a few minutes of it inside a building that (unlike the barracks) was properly warmed and lit—and that had an exquisite young woman sitting at the front desk.

“Guten tag, Fraulein,” Hogan greeted the blond beauty.

“Good afternoon, Colonel,” Fraulein Hilda answered with a smile. “What brings you here today?”

“What other excuse do I need than to see you?” Hogan winked.

“ _Colonel_ ,” Hilda chided. “If you’re here to see the commandant, it’s not a good time.”

“Is it ever a good time?” Hogan replied. “Unfortunately, it must be now. Christmas business.”

“Oooo,” Hilda said, pursing her lips into a bright red O. “Do I get a present?”

“Maybe, if all goes well,” Hogan teased.

“Well, I’d better let you in, then,” she said, and went to notify Colonel Klink that the senior POW officer was there. A few seconds later, Hogan was invited to follower into the next room.

As much as Hogan enjoyed flirting, it was almost always a warm-up to the main act. Robert Hogan was a skilled tactician, a good shot, an excellent lover—or so he’d been told—but in recent years, he’d never felt as satisfied with himself as when he was pulling one over on their German commandant, Colonel Klink, despite the man’s general incompetence. And this would be a good one—not their largest operation, but amusing nonetheless. After much debate, the men had decided that the excuse of needing to purchase decorations in town was their best chance; they could secret the parts to exchange in an extra bag to leave behind.

It was always an extra challenge to get Klink to agree to the POW’s shenanigans when the man was feeling too demoralized or too confident, but Hogan enjoyed the challenge. Today should be good, he thought; the colonel was slumped over behind his desk, bald head resting in his hands.

“What is it, Hogan? I’m very _busy_ ,” the commandant grumbled, gesticulating to a large stack of paperwork that was perched precariously next to his cigar box.

“Berlin giving you a hard time?” Hogan asked.

Klink leaned over and popped his monocle out into his hand. “They know they can trust me to take care of important matters correctly.”

Hogan swallowed a laugh and instead forced himself to don a small smile. “Of course. Well, don’t you think it would look better with a few decorations around here?”

“Decorations?” Klink asked. “What kind of decorations?”

“Well, it is almost Christmas, and the men were planning a little gift exchange—you know, some new socks here, a pinup calendar there. But one of the guards—that new fellow—“

“Gruber,” Klink supplied.

“Yes, Gruber,” Hogan agreed, “Was telling us about the prison camp Christmas decoration competition that they used to have at Stalag 9. Evidently all the camps are competing.”

“All the camps,” Klink repeated. “Now why haven’t I heard about this?” He frowned and began shuffling around in his paperwork, looking for a record of the event. Hogan bent over to help. “Isn’t this it?” he asked, pretending to pull the invitation that Louie had handcrafted out of the bottom of the pile.

“Yes, yes,” Klink agreed, skimming the paper. “Decorations. Well, there is no harm in that, I suppose.”

“Great,” Hogan said, “But—well, never mind.”

“Never mind what?” Klink asked.

“Well,” Hogan said, kneading the hat held in his hands. “Well, the thing is, if we _really_ want to compete, we’ll need more than the supplies around camp. We were hoping that one or two of us could maybe go to Hammelburg, get some tinsel…”

“Hammelburg?” Klink looked up in surprise. “Why should I let you go to Hammelburg? And buy what, with what money? Don’t you know there’s a war on, Hogan?”

“Of course, of course. LeBeau said he might have to make do. He’s not used to working under such conditions, but—“

“LeBeau?” Klink asked. “The cockroach? What’s he got to do with this?”

“Didn’t you know?” Hogan asked. “Louie was one of the top designers in Paris. He was the assistant holiday decorator at Versailles before the war. Oh, he can work with almost nothing, but just a few items would make all the difference.”

Klink peered at Hogan. Hogan’s schemes always seemed to result in a fair amount of trouble. Yet, they seemed to keep the men satisfied; there had never been a successful escape from Stalag 13. Besides, a certificate, a trophy, whatever prize they might award—that would look good on the wall.

“Fine, Hogan. We’ll send Schultz with a list,” Klink replied.

“Oh.” Hogan sighed.

“What is it now?”

“Have you seen how Schultz dresses off-duty?”

Klink sighed. Having spent most of his life in the military he realized that he knew very little about fashion, but even _he_ knew that Schultz color-blind, pattern-blind combinations were offensive to the eye.

“Okay, Hogan. You and LeBeau and Schultz. That’s all. And the prisoners are using their own money.”

“That’s very generous. We’ll pick up some mistletoe for you on the way back, too.” Hogan winked.

“And use it with whom? My reports?” Klink shook his head. “Enough, Hogan. Now—“

BANG. The office door was opened so hard that it hit the wall, rattling the windows. A short man dressed entirely in black and red strode into the room, a wicked grin emerging from under his moustache. Behind him, Hilda poked her head around the door. “Major Hochstetter’s here to see you, sir,” she whispered.

Klink rose and plastered a large smile that Hogan knew to be fake on his face. “Hochstetter. Delightful to see you. Please come in, have a seat, Colonel Hogan was just leaving.”

Hochstetter did not move, except to smile more widely. “Hogan can stay, Klink. But you won’t be here much longer. In fact, you won’t be alive much longer. I’ve finally got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Klink! More of Hogan's schemes--and will Hochstetter finally get his revenge? On Christmas?
> 
> For those of you who are looking for preslash, there's at least one more chapter of plot left before the slow burn starts burning. Sorry! I hope that Hogan's banter is enough to tide you over. I always thought the Hogan/Klink dynamic had a certain amount of subtext to it, even if (like here) it's not the main point of the story.


	3. The Accusation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hochstetter delivers a very un-Christmas-y threat.

Hogan and Klink had spent a lot of time together since the American had first arrived at Stalag 13 almost two years before. Initially, Hogan had worked to find excuses to spend time with the man to understand his weaknesses and learn how to exploit them. Seeing as this was not a hard task—Klink’s flaws as a person were scarcely more hidden than those he had as an officer—Hogan also learned to appreciate the commandant’s strengths. The two men were not quite friends, but Hogan knew Klink well enough, and knew what to expect when Klink was caught off guard: barely-hidden panic, bumbling excuses, and an immediate and overall outlook of despair.

Therefore, the American was surprised by Klink’s reaction to the Gestapo major’s ominous threat. Klink rose to his feet so quickly that he jostled the table, sending his pile of paperwork cascading across the tabletop. He drew himself up to full height and glared at Hochstetter. “What do you mean, you’ve ‘got me?’”

Hochstetter grinned a wide, predatory grin, and held up is right hand, which was clutching a single sheet of paper. “This proves it. Colonel Klink—grandson of a _Jew_. You’ll be sent east in no time.”

“What do you mean?” Klink spluttered. “My family, we are all loyal Germans, Christians, military men. There are no Jews in my family.”

“Are you sure about that, Klink? Did you ever meet your great-grandmother?”

Klink paused, frowning. “No. She died before I was born.”

Hochstetter ‘s smile grew. “And yet, one of my aides had no trouble finding record of her conversion in the church records in Heidelberg. What a scandal it would have been, even then, if anyone had found out. But now? Now, I show this to anyone and you’re through.”

“Preposterous!” Klink yelled, slamming his hands on the desk. Hogan twitched involuntarily.

"Are you sure? Uh-uh,” he continued, pulling the paper just out of Klink’s reach as the taller man leaned over to grab it. “I’m going to keep this with me.”

“It won’t do you any good,” Klink huffed. “It’s false.” For the first time, Hogan could see the man’s conviction fading. “And why bring such accusations against a fellow loyal German officer?”

Hochstetter leaned in over the desk. Though the major was shorter than the colonel, Klink shrank back. “Klink—you’ve been a thorn in my side since the war began. Without your incompetence, I’d already be general! And loyal? You’re not even a party member.”

“Well, I…” The old bumbling Klink was returning. “Major, what do you want?” Klink let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have a lot of money, but…” Hogan shook his head. That had been the reaction of a guilty man. Klink had lost his edge, but for once, Hogan was also at a loss for what to do.

The major leaned back slowly. “Nothing,” he said. “I want nothing but to watch you _squirm_. Heil Hitler!” He pulled himself to attention then added in a low voice, “And Merry Christmas—if you even celebrate it, you Jew.” With that, he strode from the room, slamming the door closed behind him.

For a moment, the two men left in the room said nothing. “Colonel,” Hogan began, “Is it true?”

“Hm?”

“What Hochstetter said. Is it true?”

"I don’t know.” Klink sighed and collapsed into his desk chair. “Hogan,” he said, the first note of desperation creeping into his voice, “What am I going to do? If Hochstetter can convince the generals that his papers are real—“ His voice trailed off, but Hogan understood him perfectly. At best, it would mean a one-way ticket to the front lines of the Russian Front. At worst, it would be a different type of one-way ticket, for Klink and all of his living family.

Hogan rarely lied to Klink, but he also rarely told the man the truth. This was one of those rare times when the latter was appropriate. “Klink—I don’t think either of us would call each other a friend. But neither are you my enemy. If is anything that I or my men can do to help you, we will do it.” As he said it, Hogan realized that the promise was sincere. Moreover, it was a promise made not only from of a sense of self-preservation—how could the operation continue with Klink gone?—but also a sense of compassion.

“That’s very kind, Hogan,” Klink replied, “But there’s nothing you can do.” He retreated into himself, curling back into the chair once more. “You’re dismissed.”

Hogan paused on the way to the door. “And what about the decorations?”

Klink sighed. “I’m sorry, Hogan. What does Christmas matter at a time like this? Leave me, please.” Seeing that there was nothing more he could do for now, Hogan nodded and headed for the door.


	4. It's the Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newkirk is troubled; Schultz is kind.

Back outside in the compound, the prisoners were trying to make the best of the weather. It had rained and frozen the day before leaving the grounds a muddy, slushy mess. Though Newkirk was used to this very English weather, he found himself liking it less and less as he became older. On this particular day, he contented himself with a perfunctory jog around the enclosure for exercise before retreating for a nice smoke by the wall of the barrack.

The cigarettes—an item commandeered during a recent raid—were good ones, but the Englishman found himself hardly noticing the flavor as he rolled the smoke around in his mouth. First the run and now a smoke, and he still couldn’t shake the thoughts on his mind.

It had all started with that bloody gift exchange. Carter had written out all of their names on tiny pieces of paper, ready for the men to pull out of his hat as the exited the building for the exercise yard. Of course, the quality of the paper wasn’t so good, so only a man who quite honestly _was not looking_ would be able to choose someone without knowing who. Honesty, Newkirk recognized, was not always his strong suit—especially when he knew there was exactly one name that he both wanted and feared to draw. _Should I be…selective?_ Newkirk wondered. No one would ever know. But, as he drew closer and saw Carter’s grinning face, he made up his mind. It wouldn’t be fair, would it? And Carter was going to work so hard. Truly, honestly, without looking—not even a peek—the corporal thrust his hand into the hat and pulled out precisely one slip of paper.

He stepped outside. He unrolled the paper, but it nearly slipped from his hands. There, written in Carter’s neat schoolgirl hand, was the name: Robert Hogan.

Newkirk exhaled a long plume of smoke. It disappeared into the gray sky as he continued to think. What could he possibly get for Hogan? Food, alcohol, clothing, weapons, art, jewelry, money— anything they got from raids—Hogan had the first shot at it. Bugger him; the man even had first shot at the ladies they met. Though generally open with his men, Hogan never had complained about anything, not really. He hadn’t even mentioned wanting to go home. This was going to be a difficult task.

That was the first problem. The second problem—well, Newkirk wasn’t sure exactly why he cared so much about finding Hogan the perfect gift, but he did. Had it been Louis, he’d have found a nice wine; for Kinch, a good book. Carter he could probably satisfy with anything as long as it had a bow on top. But Hogan…he wanted Hogan…he wanted Hogan to…he could hardly think it. He’d fancied blokes before, and acted on it a few times too, but it was never more than a quickie in the alley behind the pub. He never exchanged real names, never saw them again.

But Hogan’s laugh was the highlight of his day. There was nothing more gratifying than hearing “Good work, Newkirk” fall from the man’s lips. He would not only _have_ to see the man every day; he wanted to. But Hogan played his cards close to his chest. If he was interested in Newkirk, he’d never given any sign. It hadn’t taken long for the corporal to determine that the best he could hope for was to go home after the war, settle down and have a family with some nice bird, and try to forget the colonel.

“I recognize that look.” Newkirk jumped, but it was only the tubby Sergeant Schultz who had come to lean against the wall with him. “Who is she?” the sergeant asked with a smile.

Newkirk forced himself to laugh. “Where’d you get that idea, Schultzie? No, it’s just this prisoner’s gift exchange. I don't know what to get.”

“There’s a gift exchange? And you didn’t ask me?” Schultz frowned.

“It’s for prisoners only. Don’t worry, we’ll find a gift for our favorite German.” Newkirk smiled more widely. He genuinely liked Schultz.

“Good. Some chocolates would be nice—but _only_ if it’s not _too much_ trouble.” He gestured in emphasis and almost lost his rifle, recovering it only at the last minute.

“Of course, of course. We’ll see what we can do.” Newkirk always wondered if Schultz truly knew more about the operation than he let on—he had to, if he thought they had a ready supply of chocolates!

“Whose name did you get, then?” Schultz asked.

“Hogan,” Newkirk moaned, shaking his head. “He has everything—at least, he has anything I could find for him.”

“What is it you say in English? ‘It’s the thought that is true?’”

“It’s the thought that _counts_ ,” the Englishman corrected with a smile. “S’pose you’re right. I just don’t see how rushing around and trying to find gifts is cheerful. It was Carter’s idea.”

“Maybe it’s what he did at home, before the war. I miss Christmas before the war, too.”

Newkirk stubbed his finished cigarette out on the ground. “Really, Schultzie? What’d you do?”

“Well,” the sergeant began, “You know my family has the toy company. We make toys the traditional German way—handmade, all of them. Christmas was always the happiest time of year. So many toys to build and paint! So many happy children.” He looked up at the sky and sniffled. Newkirk could tell the man was trying not to cry.

“What happened to it, then? The factory?” Newkirk asked.

“It’s closed, but it’s still there. Your planes haven’t bombed it yet.”

“I’m sorry, Schultz. I guess we all wish things were different. “

“After the war, maybe I’ll show you.” Schultz smiled.

At that moment, a long black car roared through the gates. “Hochstetter,” Newkirk breathed, watching the man storm into the main office. “I wonder what’s that about?”

They didn’t have long to wait. Not five minutes later, out came Hochstetter, then Hogan. Taking his leave of Schultz, Newkirk walked quickly over to his commanding officer. “Sir?” he asked.

Hogan’s tightly pursed lips opened slowly, as if the words were difficult to get out. “Now we’re really in trouble.”


End file.
